


The University AU

by halfhardtorock



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Pining, Secret Crush, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 16:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2116101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfhardtorock/pseuds/halfhardtorock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks over his shoulder at Eames, who is rolled over onto his side, broad back to Arthur. Even with just the hall light coming in under the door, Arthur can see the dark shadow of tattoos on Eames's shoulder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

He wakes up because his briefs are clammy, wet. He has this horrified thought, that he's soaked his bed sheets and will have to change them in the morning before his mom wakes up, so he's out of bed and touching them like a guilty 14-year-old before he realizes that no, he's not home.

He's at school.

He looks over his shoulder at Eames, who is rolled over onto his side, broad back to Arthur. Even with just the hall light coming in under the door, Arthur can see the dark shadow of tattoos on Eames's shoulder.

His bed is dry, so he silently gathers his towel and soap, goes out into the night-empty hall.

He's the only one in the showers at 4 am, so he washes with long, languid strokes.

The water is so hot, the first shower of the day.

Hidden in the shushing sound of it, he puts two sure fingers deep into himself.

He gets it done with precision, finger stroking in and out as he brings himself off with his other fist.

When he's done, he cleans up again.

He's got a break of sweat on his upper lip, shivers at the chill air in the hall when he walks back.

In his dorm room, Eames is still sleeping. Arthur hangs his towel, searches for a pair of briefs in his drawer, eyes cutting back to Eames every few seconds to make sure he's still out.

 

 

"Why do you do it, dear Arthur? Day in and day out, the perfect gentleman. The prep school tightass-" Eames rambles, no heart to it, just liking the sound of his own voice. Arthur ignores him easily, tucks his tie into his vest. He only looks in the mirror at Eames once, when Eames takes up his pocket watch and fastens the chain. Eames's hair is soft-looking from his shower, a little wavy. Arthur finishes himself, sweeps palms down his chest primly to smooth everything into place.

"I have a makeup lab tonight, love. Don't wait up," Eames tells him and Arthur snorts.

"No endearments," Arthur says. "And I don't give a shit where you are at night."

"Mmmm," says Eames warmly. He's slicking his hair into place. Arthur watches again in the mirror, too long, sees Eames catch him. The pleasure that passes over his face.

Arthur puts his satchel over his shoulder. He feels vicious for a breathless moment. "Will you pick up your dirty underwear? You're a fucking slob."

"Yes, dear," Eames says, humoring him, voice pleasant.

Arthur pauses on his way out, hand on the door. He looks back at Eames, hard.

Eames smiles and raises a brow. Says "Yes, _Arthur_."

Arthur leaves, walks across campus in the cold air in just his shirtsleeves.

 

 

Eames's underwear is still on the floor.

Arthur locks the door behind him. Drops his keys on the desk without looking. Pulls his satchel off slowly and lets it fall by the bookshelf. He takes off his vest, then strips his braces down.

He picks up Eames's underwear gingerly and holds it between two fingers as he unzips his slacks with his other hand, lets them slip a little down his legs.

He shifts Eames's underwear in his palm, catches his bottom lip in his teeth and then tucks the material around his stiff cock.

He jerks off into them hastily, head rolled back on his shoulders, frustrated. He sweats up the armpits of his shirt. He thinks about Eames's meaty back. He thinks about the time Eames wrestled him over the last of their gin, laughing in his ear while Arthur gasped and tried not to get off by accident, his private erection rubbed raw against the hardwood in the tussle.

He thinks about Eames's thick mouth, his hands, how _fat_ his dick must be-

It's always those last, vulnerable seconds before he comes that he can't get a hold of himself. He hides it from everyone, from himself, but when he's this close, when he's just about to trip over the edge, he's nothing more than a big, whiny cockslut.

"Oh. Shit-" he breathes. He needs. Oh God. _Eames_. He needs to get-

It's overwhelmingly dirty, leaves him weak-kneed when it's done shaking him. Even his hand trembles as he pulls the tacky material away from his sensitive flesh.

He looks down at the puddle of come he's left on Eames's black underwear. He holds it in his hand like a token. A love letter.

And then his dignity rushes over him and he folds the underwear over with a noise of disgust.

 

 

He's doing his homework at his desk with his sleeves rolled, braces back in place. Vest hung in his closet.

Eames comes in and he's wearing a thick red scarf, tied handsome at his throat. Arthur looks up at him for a long moment, inked thumb at his lip.

"You like it," Eames says. He undoes his jacket and pulls it off, leaves it tossed on his bed. Then he pulls the scarf loose, looks at it and hands it to Arthur.

Arthur takes it, surprised.

"It's yours, my little sartorialist," he says, and then to Arthur's discomfort, he starts undoing his trousers.

Arthur looks at the scarf for a long time, carefully. He can feel the heat on his face and he hates it. He hates himself and all the tells his body lets slip, out of his control.

He hears Eames pull his towel off the wrack on the door. "Pour me a drink, will you love?"

Arthur tosses the scarf on the bed like he doesn't want it, irritable. But when Eames leaves, he gets up and mixes him a gin and tonic. Leaves it on Eames's desk.

He tries not to look up when Eames comes back in. Because he knows what he looks like, damp from the shower, broad, hearty chest and tattoos.

He keeps his eyes on his book, arm curled around it. He leans in closer, more determined, when Eames walks past him to turn on the cd player.

Jimmy Scott is good. He loosens Arthur up. His eyes drift closed and he just hangs there over his work, listening and ignoring Eames.

Eames gets dressed slowly behind him. Always slowly like he's loathe to do it. Walks around for a long time without a shirt on, in just his pajama bottoms.

Then Arthur hears the clink of ice against a glass, and he knows Eames is drinking his gin and tonic. He knows he makes them perfect for Eames.

Eames sits on Arthur's bed. When Arthur looks at him, surprised, he's rushed with gratitude that at least Eames is sitting on Arthur's bed fully clothed. He's looking off into space, drinking.

"It's snowing-" Eames tells him, voice a monotone, like he's somewhere else, but reaching back to Arthur.

"Don't spill that on my bed," Arthur grumbles.

 

 

They go out into the white together the next day, Arthur wearing Eames's scarf selfishly, though Eames looks chilled with just his jacket collar turned up. The cars parked overnight on the street are lumps of snow. Eames smokes a cigarette and when they get to the library, Eames says "Now don't study your little head off," and winks.

Arthur ignores him, doesn't say goodbye. Goes into the library alone.

He's one of the first people there. He takes a table with a view of the wintery quad, spreads out his books and then his laptop.

He works for five hours straight. The library warms, soft voices fill the downstairs hall. He eats an apple, reading thoughtfully.

When it's halfway to 1:00, he gets up and goes to the bathroom.

He's pissing when the door opens and Professor Saito is there, coming in. Saito pauses when he sees him, surprised.

"Arthur," he says.

Arthur looks away, tries to will himself to finish, his body gone all sharp-tight on itself, defensive.

He clenches his eyes shut and then his bladder burns and he lets it all out. Tries to clean up neatly, but Saito is behind him, hands touching his waist. Arthur jerks.

" _Arthur_ ," Saito says again, but it means something very different this time.

 

 

He never holds Arthur's hips strong enough. Arthur asks for it with frustrated little whimpers, but Saito doesn't seem too invested in giving Arthur what _he_ wants. Which is just Saito. What did Arthur really expect.

His body is in that beautiful, fleeting moment of sore, tender, post-coital warmth. He looks over his shoulder at Saito's lean form in the lamplight. Saito is sitting beside him, sheet pooled over his narrow hips. He's watching Arthur.

"Arthur. You have so many needs. You are very high maintenance."

It's like a slap to the face, how quickly he blushes with embarrassment. He gets up, ignoring Saito's displeased sound. But Saito doesn't beg. When Arthur turns back, Saito is making a phone call. Back to work.

Arthur lets himself out, leaves his jacket and shirt collar unbuttoned to let the cold air in on his sex-damp skin.

 

 

He opens his door and Eames is sitting on the floor with a black trunk open before him, contents spread out all over the place. He looks at Arthur with this expression that's all openly curious, and it takes Arthur a moment to realize that it's _his_ trunk.

His whole body goes strange-hot with humiliation. He clenches his hand on the door handle, staring at his things on the floor.

The two pair of Eames's underwear that he meant to wash but had just tucked away like they were his now.

His...his _dildo_. Eames has it on the floor by his knee. Just there, for anyone to see. Eames.

"Arthur," Eames says, and his voice is so full of surprise.

"You-" Arthur starts shaking. Eames just looks at him like he's _worried_.

"Are you... _gay_ , Arthur?" Eames asks him, voice quiet and invested.

He feels like he could break something with his bare hands, something glass and cutting and dangerous. He steps towards Eames once.

But he can't fight Eames, he knows that in that deep, biological way a man does when he's in love with something.

He puts his fist into the door instead. And they're both surprised when he punches a hole right through the cheap wood.

They're silent after the cracking noise of it and when Arthur pulls his arm back, his fist is red.

"Oh, Arthur-" Eames sighs and Arthur leaves. Would worm his way out of the hole if he could, disappear into it, small and secret.

He doesn't think Eames is following him, but he sprints off into the cold dark anyway.

 

 

Cobb is wearing his glasses askew, like he shoved them on just a second ago. It's too early for Cobb to be asleep, so Arthur knows Mal's over. Cobb looks at him through thin eyes, used to the dark.

"I'm sorry. I just...I can't go back to the dorm tonight."

Cobb sighs, lets him in. "I uh-"

"I can come back later, after-" Arthur says, and then realizes he shouldn't have when Cobb looks caught out.

"It's fine," Cobb says a second later, pulled together.

"I don't want to bother you-" Arthur adds and Cobb shakes his head, goes back to his bedroom.

When he opens the door, Arthur can hear Mal ask "Is it Arthur?"

Cobb closes the door.

Arthur goes to their tiny kitchen and makes himself tea, leaning over the counter with his head in his hands.

 

 

He can't sleep. He tosses a lot. He's angry for most of the night, so angry he thinks about going back to the dorm and having words with his nosy fucking roommate.

But when the sun comes up, he's not angry anymore. Just tired and bereft. He'll have to find a new place. He'll have to go back there, collect his trunk of secrets.

In spite of everything wrong at this moment in time, he knows he'll miss it.

Fuck.

 

 

He stays at Cobb's for the rest of the week, but almost every time he goes out, Eames tails him.

And he doesn't even try to hide himself. Arthur keeps his head ducked, frowning.

And they've got midterms coming up. Just like Eames to skip class so he can follow Arthur around campus, making him guilty about hiding his life away in a big, dusty trunk in his closet.

On Friday night, he takes off his tie in the hall outside of his last, late lecture, sees Eames at the other end of the walkway, leaning against the railing, waiting. Arthur stuff his tie in his pocket, walks the other way.

He doesn't know where he's going until he's halfway there, and then he just stalks with his shoulder to the wind until he rounds the corner. He slips in through the alley door.

The bar is darkly lit, humid with bodies. It'll get busier too, when the late shift at the factory ends.

He sits at his table in the corner. It's only a handful of minutes before Eames is slipping easily into the booth beside him.

"So. Is this where you pick up men?" Eames asks him curiously. Arthur looks at him. Eames is lighting a cigarette in his mouth, his thick lips pursed.

He could argue. He's not gay. That stuff in the trunk, he was holding for a friend. He's bicurious. He's bisexual. He's doing research-

"Sometimes," Arthur admits, shoulders loosening.

"Hm," Eames says to himself, looking around. He's smoking, and then thumbing his lip, cigarette in between his fingers.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, looking around. Arthur's favorite waitress, the quiet red-head, takes their drink order. When she leaves, Eames leans over closer to him and says "Which one would you bring home?"

Arthur looks around at the rest of the bar. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Not all these men are looking for that."

"Just hypothetically. If you could bring any of these men home for a shag, who would it be?"

The red-head drops off their drinks and Arthur nurses his, eyes downcast.

After a long silence, Eames seems to guess it. "Is it...me?" he asks, voice soft.

Arthur drinks again, head down, and he lets his silence speak for itself.

"Fuckin' hell," Eames laughs, voice full of wonder. Arthur closes his eyes.

"Don't-" he says and when he looks, Eames is running a palm through his hair.

"I just..." Eames says. "When I moved in, I didn't even think you _liked_ me."

Arthur can't help it. He's chagrined. He shrugs, says "I don't know, hate sex?" nonchalant.

Eames snorts. Arthur looks at his friend. Eames has his drink in hand, cigarette in between his fingers and he's grinning, excited. Face lit.

"So out of all these guys, you'd want a shag with me?" Eames clears up, and he actually looks puffed with it, proud of himself. Arthur downs the rest of his drink and stands up.

He doesn't have much to lose. Eames could probably break his nose if he wanted. So perhaps he just has facial integrity to lose.

"Yeah," Arthur says "So are you coming home with me?"

Eames looks at him. Just looks. And it's comical. He looks genuinely startled by Arthur.

His cigarette has burned down to a stub and it singes his finger. He shakes it off with a curse.

Arthur walks out, putting his jacket back on.

He's maybe a little bit of a romantic, cause he hopes with his heart stuck in his throat that Eames will follow.

 

 

His trunk is repacked when he opens the door, but it's out in the middle of their room still. Like a question mark. A reminder. A clue.

Arthur hangs up his jacket. Eames comes in, breathless, like he had to sprint to catch up.

Like it took him longer to decide.

Arthur keeps undressing. His cheeks are warm as he slips his slacks off.

Eames is standing in front of the closed door, staring. His own trench fisted up in his hand.

"Come on, Eames," Arthur says, his voice is almost soundless. "Take your clothes off."

He sits to pull his socks off and undo his shirt, and Eames suddenly strips out of his sweater and teeshirt in one go.

His chest is darkened with tattoos and wiry hair. Arthur's adam's apple rolls in his throat as he swallows.

Eames's movements are all quick, frustrated. Sudden. Arthur is just slipping out of his briefs when Eames throws his pants off and underwear.

His dick is fat with arousal. A short, thick piece that Arthur can't stop staring at.

Eames sits down on his own bed and his hands cup over himself, hiding but also feeling, smoothing. He's aroused because Arthur is getting naked for him.

It makes Arthur brave enough to finish and stand, walk across to his bed.

"Ah," Eames breathes, sinking onto his back.

"Do you have any condoms?" Arthur asks him.

Eames is looking Arthur over too. He licks his top lip quickly and nods, says "In the top drawer, love."

The endearment makes Arthur's erection twitch, nudge wetly at his abs. His fingers tremble as he gets the condom out.

He has his own slick, in the trunk. He tosses the condom at Eames's stomach, above that hairy, fat cock. He opens his trunk and digs around, finds the little, grey tube.

When he gets back up, Eames is just holding the condom wrapper dumbly, staring at him with his brows up.

"Do you need help?" Arthur asks him.

Eames looks at the condom and then a spasm of something like pain works over his face. "I can put a condom on myself," he tells Arthur.

But when Arthur perches on the end of his bed, spreads lube on his fingers and then reaches back to work himself open, Eames's fingers go stupid. They stutter the wrapper around until it bounces onto the bed.

Before Eames can take it, Arthur has it in hand and he rips it open with his teeth. Spits out the end and pulls the thin latex out with careful fingertips.

"Let me do it," he tells Eames seriously and bites his bottom lip _sharp_ as he takes a gentle hold of Eames's cock. He pauses at the feeling of it stiffening up underhand.

He looks at Eames and Eames is looking down at Arthur's hand around him, his fat mouth fallen loose, breathless.

Arthur works the condom on slowly, loves the way the material heats so quickly with Eames's flesh. Eames makes short, surprised noises, hips nudging his hand, hungry. Arthur gets the condom onto that fat flesh and jacks it into place. Eames looks up at him then, eyes narrow with need, confusion.

"It's ok, Eames," Arthur tells him, still holding his cock. "It's not a big deal. You're just going to fuck me-"

"Awfuck, Arthur-" Eames drops his head back into the bed, sweat on is brow.

Arthur flushes all over. He's ruthless as he finishes stretching himself. Eames is breathing quickly, watching, hand on himself again. Holding himself low on his cock, a ring of his fingers, holding his come.

It makes Arthur swear as he turns away, as he gets awkwardly onto his hands and knees.

"A-arthur," Eames breathes.

"It'll be easier to get in this way," Arthur grits out, then buries his face in the bed.

He has to wait, but it's not long. Two warm hands touch at his hips, skate there, just learning the lean shape of Arthur's body.

"I-" Eames says breathlessly. "Can I-?"

" _Put your dick in me_ -" Arthur growls, so impatient with nervousness. He expects Eames to talk back, to tease, but Eames's hands _curl_ at his hipbones and _take hold_.

Arthur's cock spits precome. He has to bite his lip against the onslaught of his own arousal.

"Like this?" Eames asks him, and he lets go of Arthur with one hand. He touches Arthur's cheeks spread and that meaty-hot cockhead thumps against the furl of his ass.

" _Oh_ ," Arthur breathes as Eames's cock punches in so sharply, he has to _claw_ the bed.

Eames's hands catch him roughly and hold him _rooted_ in place.

The first thrusts are jerky, breathlessly hot, _painful_. Arthur's head lolls on his shoulders, face screwed up.

"Oh my god, _Arthur_ ," Eames gasps.

Arthur reaches back instinctively, clawing at the tensing muscle of Eames's ass.

"Oh darling-" Eames says, voice gravelly. "You're very... _very tight_."

There's so much breathless reverence in his voice, Arthur just goes _slutty_ for him, asshole syrup-warm, giving. Eames's cock just slides that much sweeter, deeper into him.

Sweat patters onto Arthur's hot back and Eames starts grunting, low and masculine.

Eames _fucking_ him. Really... _really_ fucking him.

When Eames curls over him, his slick chest to Arthur's hot back, Arthur hisses, arching his ass up. His asshole _burns_ with the quickness of Eames's thrusts.

Eames's chin hitches on Arthur's shoulder, hot breath gusting quickly at Arthur's cheek and just the soft, barely-there touch of lips on his skin

Arthur can't help himself. He turns to those lips, eyes closed, nuzzling. Mouth touching down gently.

"Fuck-" Eames growls and he's kissing Arthur back. Wet, sloppy tongue all eager in his mouth, slicking along the seam of Arthur's lips.

Arthur pulls his mouth away, whines out "Eames-" Goes down on one shoulder so he can finish himself.

It's too quick. But he's so hot for it. He buries his face in the bed, jerks himself twice, shakily, and nuts off in hard, deep-body pulses.

He can feel himself _strangle_ at Eames, knows how _sudden-tight_ it is, almost feels bad for Eames when he stutters to a stop, deep, and blows his wad too with a high, surprised moan.

Hands wring on Arthur's hips, hurtful, in time with Eames's flexing cock.

 

 

"So," Arthur says lazily, stripping the condom off Eames with precise movements. Eames still jolts at the feeling, dick sensitive.

Eames is collapsed on the bed beside him, hair sweated through, eyes bright. His mouth is so gorgeously pink, Arthur wants at it. He's already had a taste. It's not his fault.

When Arthur looks down at Eames's cock, he sees that it's still half-hard, still prettily flushed. But now it's slick with come.

Arthur's never wanted to suck cock this bad in his life.

Eames's thick fingers take a hold of himself like he knows, like it's all brutal hunger all over Arthur. He holds his dick gingerly, says "Clean it off then."

Arthur goes down like a cat, easy. Licks it off with the flat of his tongue.

When he looks up, Eames's eyes are blown wide, his mouth open for his breath.

Arthur dabs his tongue at Eames's balls a few times, testing their fullness.

"Oh my darling," Eames says. "What will I do with you?" His hand heavy on Arthur's head. A languid pet.

He grins a little when Arthur frowns, twists Arthur's hair up in a fist, possessive.

Arthur pulls back just a little, to test the sting of it.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

He knows that what he's done with his straight roommate (or perhaps, with his ambiguously bisexual roommate) is grounds for some serious repercussions. These, he thinks, might be easier to deal with if he gets up early enough to give them both some space to figure shit out.

But he wakes up slowly to Eames touching back the hair off his forehead over and over and he can't make himself do it. Their room is barely lit by pale light, and it's so warm all piled up on Eames's bunk. He drifts back asleep.

He wakes up again later to he sight of Eames sitting fully dressed, in his jacket, at the end of the bed. On Arthur's foot. He's got his bottom lip in his teeth as he grunts, bends to tie his shoe.

Arthur tries to feign sleep, but Eames says "Arthur?" suddenly. Aware of him. His voice is bell-clear, and so many things could come next, so many possibilities:

_This was a terrible mistake._

_I hope you feel better now, love. I just wanted you to know we're still friends._

_Well, that was odd! I'll be going back to shagging womenfolk now. Glad we got that out of our systems._

But Eames finishes his shoe and says "I'd very much like to dress you today."

Arthur is up on his elbows, naked in his roommate's bed after they _fucked_ each other last night. He stares at Eames, processing.

"Come on then," Eames says, getting up. He walks to Arthur's closet, opens it and starts digging around.

"You want to dress me," Arthur says.

"Mmmm," Eames agrees. And he pushes a few suits aside, touching at his mouth, always touching at his mouth when he's thinking.

"Is this some obscure way to humiliate me for making you a homosexual?" Arthur asks, only half-sarcastic.

Eames barks out a surprised laugh, looks over at him. He grins, his eyes thin with pleasure.

" _Arthur_ ," Eames says with warmth. Nothing more, just _Arthur_. He pulls out one of Arthur's wool suits, dove grey, and then fingers through the ties and picks one that's a matte, dark mauve. He hangs the tie over the jacket shoulder, then picks an ivory shirt.

"There you are. No vest, please. Or those ridiculous braces."

He holds it up. He waits. Arthur looks at him.

Eames's eyebrow rises, inquisitive.

Arthur gets out of his bed awkwardly, naked. He brings a pillow with him, like a school boy afraid of his body.

Eames's grin goes crooked, a little sleazy. He hands the suit to Arthur.

"Where are you going?" Arthur asks him, frowning as Eames slips his wallet into his inner jacket pocket along with his cigarettes.

"I have a midterm," Eames says, and then he's moving in, cool hands bracketing Arthur's bare hips, just lightly. He presses a short, affectionate kiss to Arthur's cheek. Low, so it's against the line of Arthur's jaw. "And I'm certain you do too."

"You want me to wear this?" Arthur says, to make sure. He holds the suit up. It's beautiful, if a little formal.

Eames looks back at him at the door. "Oh yes, darling. I want you to wear _just that_."

Arthur showers quickly, not late for class but not early enough to study before hand. There is one sore spot deep in his body, a bruise somewhere he wouldn't be able to reach with a finger. Even after he washes the sex off him, he still feels it.

He towels off in their room, thoughtfully dresses himself.

 

 

He's got three midterms today, has only a few minutes to stop back at the dorm. Usually, he'd just go on to the library, look at his book.

But he goes back to the room, even though he'll have to dash to get to his next class.

The room is empty, undisturbed other than a dirty coffee mug on his desk and a pair of his boxers out on his made bed.

He goes to grab them. Pulls his hand away sticky.

He goes half-rigid, staring at them.

It seems he could have come back a bit earlier and caught the spectacle of his roommate unloading a stolen orgasm into his shorts.

"Eames-" he breathes to himself.

 

 

"I found your little gift," Arthur says dryly when Eames comes in.

Eames looks at him and laughs. "Did you jerk-off to the thought, Arthur? Did you suck my load off while you fucked your clever hand?"

Arthur snorts, "Yeah. Then I blew my load all over your bed. And all over your ugly fucking ties in the closet. And then all over that photo of your mom."

Eames looks amused, opens the loose board on his shelf and pulls out their bottle of gin. "Copious," he says, pouring himself a glass, neat.

He sips it, goes to sit on the edge of Arthur's desk.

"Speaking of my mother," Eames says, offering the glass to Arthur. Arthur might have refused it once, bickered with Eames about being a bad roommate for not pouring Arthur his own glass, but he takes it now. Tips half of it back.

Eames watches him lick his lip, leans a little closer, hunching like his body is drifting naturally into place.

"Yes?" Arthur asks.

"Come home with me. For the holidays," Eames says.

Arthur is caught off guard. He sits there holding the glass in the air, frozen, and after a moment, Eames chuckles and takes it from him.

"I have plans with Cobb and Mal-" he says slowly. The fjords of Norway for two weeks. Something that sounds completely stupid now. Just him alone, riding in the back of a tiny hatchback while Mal and Cobb make serious-faces at each other, argue about the Russian lit course they had together three years ago, and then punctuate everything with meaningful, slightly sinister silences.

Eames is drinking. He touches Arthur's collar, the shirt he picked out. Smoothes it down over the tie he picked out. When Arthur swallows, his curious fingers move to Arthur's adam's apple, circle it.

Arthur tents his slacks with a long, pained exhale.

"Come home with me," Eames murmurs. And then he's getting up, putting his glass down on the desk.

Arthur's mouth unhinges as he watches him.

Eames stands back, undoes his belt.

"Get up, love," he tells Arthur softly.

Arthur shoves up, away from the desk but Eames puts a firm hand to his shoulder, holds him at arm's length while he unbuttons and unzips, one handed.

"Shit-" It's punched out of Arthur.

"Brace yourself on the desk," Eames tells him. And Arthur swallows once, uncertain.

"Please, Arthur. Do I have to make you?" Eames asks.

Arthur goes forward like he's dizzy, palms spread on the table, head dropped. " _Shit_ ," he says louder.

With blunt hands, Eames efficiently opens Arthur's slacks. Inside the split, Arthur's erection is a sharp angle of stretched, sodden underwear. Eames murmurs something Arthur doesn't catch, and the whorl of his thumb just lightly smudges over the length of it.

Arthur's hips jerk. He snaps his bottom lip hard in his teeth.

Eames stretches the band of Arthur's underwear so he doesn't catch his dick and then he pulls everything down Arthur's legs, leaves his clothes pooled at his ankles.

Arthur makes a hurt sound, embarrassed at the feeling of precome, so _wet_ , slipping down his thigh.

Warm hands take his hips, squeeze a few times in something that must be affection, and then Eames is sighing softly.

"Do I-?" Eames asks him politely. He lets Arthur's right hip go, and two fingers ghost down the split of Arthur's ass. Inquisitive.

"Shit, _fuck_ -" Arthur blurts out, sensitive. He thumps his forehead to the desk when Eames laughs a little.

"Are you all right?" Eames asks, and he scritches into Arthur's hair, at his scalp.

Arthur jerks his head away. " _Yes_ ," he grits. "Just...get the lube by your bed and work me open. Quick."

He gets a sharp, cracking slap to his ass for that. He almost can't believe it, has to look around at his roommate, scandalized.

Eames has only his white undershirt on. His fat cock is bobbing, aroused, as he walks back with the lube. He smiles at Arthur and Arthur curses, face _red_ , drops his head to the desk again.

"C-come on," he says, voice thick. "Do it."

Eames holds his hip _strongly_. Two fingers trail up his cleft, leave him messy. They're smart though, find the hot center of his ass quickly and just rub there, circling.

"Fuck I want your dick-" Arthur breathes out in one gust. His hips are jerking erratically now, and one fingertip snags him, presses in slowly.

"Oh, oh," Arthur takes shaky breaths, voice dry. The hand on his hip _grips_ the bone. "Oh-"

"You're just the _tightest_ I've ever had," Eames says to him, honest, warm voice at his shoulder.

Arthur's breathing is loud, stuttered, raw.

Eames's work is impatient, rough. But at one point, he lets his two fingers just kiss deep, _spread_ in Arthur's ass like he's marveling at the cling of sleek muscle.

Arthur fists his hand, knocks it on the table. "Come on! Jesus f-fuck-

"Oh, you're ready," Eames tells him breathlessly, like Arthur doesn't know. "You're perfect-"

Arthur listens to the frustrating sound of Eames fumbling with a condom. His ass is twitchy, needy. The table is slick under-mouth where he's breathed humid all over it, wet it.

"Please, please," he says, voice lost.

" _Fuck_ ," falls out of Eames's mouth, and then he's pulling Arthur's ass apart, dragging his dick along, accidentally teasing.

"Hold still-" Eames says and the fuck is _sharp_. Deep without any reprieve. Perfect.

" _Eames,_ " Arthur says too loud.

 

 

He's trembling because Eames's is still holding his spent cock like he wants to keep it. Arthur wipes the drool off his chin and then grits out "Please let go-"

Eames sighs into him, heavy at his back. His cock is still fat in Arthur's ass, just barely edging out of him. Eames lets Arthur go with a gentle pet of his thumb. Arthur hisses.

"You yelled for me-" Eames tells him as he eases out.

Arthur jolts hard at the feeling, collapsing on his desk. He thinks he might have to sleep there, but strong, thick arms hug around his waist, lift him easily.

It's so outrageous when Eames carries him to his bed, Arthur laughs. His slacks slip all the way off, left on the floor for him to pout about later.

Eames tosses him down and Arthur rolls over, watches Eames strip off the condom leave it slapped on his dresser top.

"You're a fucking slob-" Arthur teases and Eames climbs over him to get into the small bed, wonderfully solid.

"Mmm. I'm going to spank you with it while you're sleeping, Arthur," Eames promises with a low growl.

Arthur pulls him into his arms, face aching with his grin.

"No you won't," Arthur says after a while, to the dark.

 

 

"It's going to be _Brideshead Revisited_ , isn't it? It is, isn't it?" Arthur argues with him. Eames is looking into his closet.

"Yes, darling. It's going to be exactly like that," he says distracted. Not really listening. Arthur is all jogging knee, hands rubbing his thighs over and again.

"I'm fucking cold. Just pick one," he says sharply. Eames pulls the dark blue wool, holds it back to Arthur whose been sitting in just his boxers and undershirt for twenty minutes.

"So what, will we be foxhunting with the rest of the landed gentry?"

Eames considers a few ties, pulls one that's silk, thick maroon stripes with small, cream stripes. He passes it over.

"Mmm, I suppose. If my uncle is home."

Arthur shivers as he pulls the cold wool up his legs. He gives Eames a skeptical look. Eames leans against the desk, watching. Looking at his handiwork.

"You used to be an asshole about my suits, and now you get off on dressing me in them," Arthur grumbles.

Eames nods in patient agreement.

When Arthur gets to the tie, Eames takes it back, flips Arthur's collar up, both hands at work. Close like this, Arthur can feel his breath on his mouth. "You're my gorgeous boy, aren't you, Arthur?"

Arthur rolls his eyes.

Eames gives him a beautiful double windsor, puts the collar in place. "My little prep school fag," he says with relish. And then he's putting on his own jacket.

"Are you dragging me to your country estate for some bizarre spectacle of patriciate decadence?" Arthur asks and Eames looks at him with a lot of affection.

"You are, oh god-" Arthur says.

"My mother is very respectable, Arthur. She just happens to get a bit cheery around the holidays," Eames explains.

Arthur looks at him, consternated. "How is that an answer??"

 

 

Cobb and Mal set out dinner, leftover Greek food, dolmas that are soggy, rice spilling out of their skins, but still delicious. Arthur slides one around his plate, leaving a trail of olive oil and then he eats it slowly, watching Mal at the fridge looking for the last of the olives.

"Are you sure?" Cobb asks him. He's still surprised. Or maybe he's just worried about going all the way to Norway with Mal. Alone.

"I have a lot to do here. If I stay, I'll be able to get some good reading done. The library will still be open-"

Cobb sighs and leans back in his chair. "Mal? Can you bring some forks?"

And then he squints at Arthur, trying to figure him out. "I think I know what this is about."

Arthur has a minor aneurism, imagining for a second that Cobb might have seen something.

"This is about _Saito_ , isn't it?" Cobb whispers across the table.

Mal comes in with a flurry of irritated French and slaps a fork down by Cobb. She hands one graciously to Arthur, who takes it as Cobb pushes out of his chair and follows her back into the kitchen to argue with her in whispers.

"It's not about Saito!" Arthur calls in to them, after a while.

"He's no good for you, Arthur!" Mal calls back.

Alone, Arthur eats little blocks of soft feta and drinks his wine.

 

 

The snow has already melted out here in the long, rolling lands. It's a graying landscape with dark smudges of sooty clouds and bare, rain-wet trees. Arthur's never been this far out of London before. It's windy.

"Where will I be sleeping," Arthur asks, looking back at Eames.

Eames glances at him, sounds surprised when he says "With me, of course."

Arthur snorts. But Eames's face is all open honesty.

"You're joking," he says.

"Why? Did you want to sleep elsewhere?" Eames asks him, a little tuck in his brow. Arthur stares at it.

"You want me to sleep in your room? At your mother's house? While your whole family is home?" Arthur lays out.

Eames puts his hand on Arthur's knee "Do you think I'm the first local boy to bring a favored school chum home on holiday?"

Arthur jerks when Eames's fingers dig into the meat of his thigh.

Arthur looks at him meaningfully. He drops his head into the seatback.

Eames ignores him, pets at his inner thigh with patient strokes.

 

 

There's a long, gravel drive and when they come up over a rise, Arthur realizes they're not on the road anymore, they're inside the grounds. There are some quiet gardens, a small pond with a spouting fountain in the center and then Arthur sees the house for the first time, at a rise in the road. Eames turns to him, curious for a reaction.

"It's a fucking _castle_ ," Arthur says.

"No, darling!" Eames argues. "It's just a medieval house."

"It's beautiful," Arthur says as they drive closer. He's not a fool. He enjoys fine things.

 

 

Eames dangles a lit cigarette from his mouth as he pulls their bags out of the back of the car. Arthur looks along the front of the house, marveling. It's all sobering, grey stone, small windows with bar tracery and little squares of glass that looked like mirrors.

"We're late," Eames tells him and Arthur frowns.

"I didn't know we had a schedule. Why'd you let me take so much time this morning!" he argues.

Eames slaps Arthur's irritated face softly, says "No, dearest. It's past one. They've definitely started drinking without us. We're at least a few behind."

Arthur ignores him, tries to grab his bag but Eames picks it up first. He pauses, takes the cigarette out of his mouth and drops a small peck to Arthur's cheek.

Standing in front of Eames's home, Arthur's face goes mottled.

"Just. Don't call me dearest in front of your mother," he grumbles.

 

 

Eames's mother is a beautiful woman. Arthur should have guessed she would be. She's elegant in an easy way, not particularly flashy, almost plain in her cream blouse and slacks. She's got a sloane ranger look to her that Arthur finds pretty in spite of himself. When she kisses him hello, it's square on the mouth.

"Oh Charlie, you're looking peckish-" she tells Eames, patting his belly. Eames sighs and kisses her hello.

"Why don't you take a moment to settle and I'll lay out some lunch," she says and busies herself away.

" _Charlie_ ," Arthur teases low, following Eames up the narrow stairway in the hall.

At the top landing, Eames looks back at him with glittering eyes, interested. Heat slinks through Arthur at the sight of him. The dashing, young Lord in his estate, jacket opened just so, valise in hand.

Eames's room is paneled with dark red wood. Only a pale, weak glow comes from the two slit windows, so Eames turns on a light by the bed.

It burns in the room like a miner's lamp.

The bed is decadent in size, of a sinking softness when Arthur sits down with a groan.

"Oh, don't do that, love-" Eames says. Arthur lets himself drop back, hands behind his head. He waits.

The bed dips when Eames settles beside him. A heavy hand feels along his thigh, his chest, undoing the button of his jacket. Arthur's eyes close tight.

But Eames just helps him out of his jacket and then gets up, hangs it in the closet. Arthur watches, scandalized.

"I'll assault you later when you're good and drunk," Eames tells him. But in the hallway, when they jostle into each other trying to leave the room at the same time, Eames makes a frustrated sound and they're kissing. A tongue-tied, sloppy kiss that Arthur breaks after his elbow jogs against a cabinet of figurines. They rattle together and he turns to check them, panting.

Eames's mouth is ridiculous. Plump and sheeny. His hair has fallen loose in his eyes. He looks at Arthur, surprised at their kiss, and combs it back in place with his fingers.

 

 

They have drinks in their hands before they even sit down at the table. Two whiskey sours that are more whiskey than anything. Arthur's mouth puckers a little. Eames's mother fusses with the table, cuts pieces of cold ham off a bone, sucks her fingers clean and then goes to the kitchen for some bread.

Arthur drinks and watches Eames eat. Eames eats largely, with open enjoyment. He half-stands to kiss his mother again when she sets marmalade by his plate.

"Don't be cheeky-" she laughs. Arthur eats a few bites of hard-boiled eggs, then turns his chair to gaze out the window at the grounds.

Arthur eats lightly, cutting his bread and some egg into perfect, matched bites. He eats them dabbed in mustard. Everything is wonderful.

He looks up and Eames is watching him, leaned on his palm, elbow to the table. He looks at Arthur with lazily pointed interest. Arthur frowns, shoots a side look at Eames's mother, wondering what she might suspect about them. About her son, mooning over him. But she's drinking, head tilted, busy looking out her window.

She talks to Eames in a way Arthur finds fascinating. Not the way his parents speak to him at all, _How is school, son? We were wondering if you had given any thought yet, on how you'll be paying off our loan_. She laughs sweetly at Eames's jokes, complains to him about the way a new neighbor's outbuilding is breaking a civil code with its garish metal roof. She tells him with an eye-roll about Agatha, Eames's sister, and the independent horror movie she's filming in New Zealand. And then she hints to him that her love life is miserable.

When Eames catches her hand and tells her that she's much too lovely for miserable romances, she pats his hair affectionately, sighs and leaves the room.

"Well, it's time I pay a visit to my grandfather's office," Eames says when they're done.

"Should we clean this-?" Arthur asks as they get up. Eames finishes his drink.

"My mother would emasculate you soundly if you tried, darling," Eames says.

In the hall, Eames opens a heavy wood door and inside are an array of coats, furs, boots and slippers. He gets down, digs around on the floor. He comes out with a raincoat on his arm and two sets of rubber boots in hand. "These should fit you. They're my sister's. Her feet are enormous."

Arthur frowns, takes them in pinched fingers. "I am not wearing these," he says.

"If you don't, you'll ruin the lovely slacks I picked out for you today. I'll be very displeased, Arthur."

So Arthur slips off his loafers and pulls on the boots. Eames puts on his own boots and gives Arthur the raincoat.

"Now don't be afraid to hold my arm if you need to," Eames tells him as they go out into the wet and slip across the muddy yard.

 

 

They walk along the drive, through deep, rutty puddles and past melting snow drifts, all blackened from sprayed gravel. Between the trees, Arthur can see a wide, brown river. It's cold out. He keeps checking Eames's face, looking at the bright red slashes on his cheekbones, at the pink tip of his nose.

Eames smokes but stubs out his cigarette on his heel when they reach a gate in front of a stone building, set up off the road.

"What's this?" Arthur asks.

"Well it was the boathouse," Eames says, and they start through the gate and walk up.

 

 

It seems the Eames family keeps a pub. On their estate. Not unlike how their forefathers may have kept a chapel. It's smoky inside, moody with low lamplight, but there is a beautiful full, mahogany bar, a man tending it with a checkered cloth and three, white haired men at the end, sitting in a row with pints set before them.

"Who is that?" one of the men says, squinting into the flash of light as the door closes behind them.

Eames walks forward, trailing mud. Arthur frowns, tries to wipe his boots off on the mat before he follows.

"Ah, Charlie," the bartender says, smiling. He walks around the bar and hugs Eames with a hearty slap to his back. "Thought I'd be seeing you."

Eames turns and Arthur follows, feeling unsightly in the tall, rubber boots before he notices all the men are wearing them.

"This is Arthur," Eames says to the man and the man looks at Arthur with a furrowed brow and then offers his hand. They shake.

"Hello, son," the man says and Eames introduces him as Edwin.

Then Eames goes to the three old men and to Arthur's surprise, hugs one roughly from behind, chin over his shoulder.

"What do you mean by this, slag!" the old man chokes out and all the other men laugh. Eames pulls away and says "Give us a kiss, darling-"

And his grandfather groans, says "Charlie! I should have known. You home for good? Bloody university, gets its suckers in my only sensible grandson."

Eames smiles, then looks serious, brushes at his grandfather's shirt. "You've spilled all down your front, old man," he tells him. "Look at you."

His grandfather grumbles, shoves him away. "Can you believe this, boys? You'd think he wasn't living the high life in the city on my money."

The men laugh.

"Granddad, I have a friend here. Would you meet him?"

The man plucks a pair of glasses off the bar and puts them on, looks at Arthur myopically. His face is impassive. He turns to Eames, says "He's a bit skinny, isn't he?"

Eames grins.

Eames's grandfather sits back with a grunt and waves Eames off with a "My family! Always hounding at my heels when I'm just trying to sit a piece and have a quiet pint."

Eames guides Arthur away. They have the other end of the bar to themselves.

When Edwin puts down two dark drafts for them, Eames asks for a bottle of whiskey. He nods, fetches it and two empty glasses.

"Your grandfather is-" Arthur starts.

"-drunk, darling," Eames finishes for him. He pours the whiskey and Arthur takes it down in one draught.

"That's it," Eames encourages. Arthur coughs.

"Is this what you'll be doing in your twilight years too?" Arthur asks. The whiskey is smooth, bright in his belly.

Eames smiles. "This is my birthright, Arthur."

Arthur looks at an old portrait of a quiet-looking man with small, warm eyes, hanging over the bar.

"Thomas Eames the 3rd, Lord Chancellor of Ireland," he reads the plaque.

"Yes, Tom probably tossed his lunch a few times after an afternoon in here. Right out back in the hay paddock like the rest of us," Eames says lightly.

It takes him a moment to realize Eames's isn't joking.

"Blue bloods," Arthur says to himself, drinking.

 

 

They walk back with their arms knitted because Arthur is a little drunk after all. He doesn't push him when Eames slips in the mud, does a skidding, desperate half-dance to stop himself from falling. But it's a near thing.

 

 

"Darlings?" Eames's mother calls across the house from some back room. Arthur is pulling off his boots, wondering blearily if she's in a women's parlor, like a Jane Austen novel. It's chilly in the house. "Are you going to want dinner soon?"

Eames takes him by the collar like it's the scruff of his neck and drags him to his mouth. It's a dirty suck that makes Arthur's finger's bite into Eames's thick arms, holding on.

"Charles?" comes a male voice from the other room.

Eames pulls away so fast, their parting mouths make a _pop_.

"Fuck," Arthur hisses, watching Eames wipe off his pink lips.

A boy with blonde hair appears in the doorway, looking in. He's holding a glass of milk and when he sees them, he frowns.

"You're blotto," he says, disdainful.

"Yes. Well. What a shocking twist to our story," Eames says in return. The boy is cross. He looks at Arthur and says "This is the American?"

"This is _Arthur_ ," Eames cautions.

Arthur must be wanting, because the kid ignores him "Mother is throwing together one of her _soirées_ for tomorrow night. Did you know about this?"

Eames laughs, hearty. "Oh. How wonderful-"

"Wonderful!" the kid says. "I was hoping for a united front on this one, Charles."

"Adam! Did you forget what you were doing, love?" Eames's mother calls from the other room. "The phone, please, darling."

Adam sighs, exasperated. "Well, it's your problem now. I'm going back to school early."

"Hmm," Eames says looking away.

Adam walks out of the room, door swinging behind him.

The kid is obviously a little _bitch_.

"Would you like some tea, love?" Eames asks him so kindly. And then Arthur sees the spatter of drying mud on his slacks and sighs. "Can I get cleaned up?"

Eames drifts into him, arm around his hip. He starts walking him up the stairs. "Let me draw you a bath."

 

 

Steam rises off the water because the air is so cool. The bathroom is a quiet little nook off their room, with a wide, claw-foot tub set into the wall. Eames lights a candle and places it down on the floor, then lays out a washcloth.

He leaves so Arthur can get undressed, but comes back when he's in the tub, settled in the delicious heat.

Eames sits at the bath's edge while Arthur silently soaks. He's drinking tea and smoking in a cotton flannel bathrobe. Arthur can see his broad, bare chest in the V of material. Eames's got a local newspaper spread open on his knee and he's reading it critically even though it says JUNE 2009 in the corner.

Arthur tries to stay deep in the water, chin bobbing in and out as his eyelids go heavy. When he rests his head back, a firm hand touches his kneecap, wrings it. He jerks, water sloshing.

He scowls at Eames and Eames drags off his cigarette and then lets the smoke pool out of his mouth slowly.

"Are you getting very clean?" Eames asks him.

Arthur settles again. "Yes, father," he says, monotone.

"Mmmm," Eames murmurs. The end of his cigarette reddens. Arthur slicks the hair back on his head and sits up, reaches, searching on the floor for the soap dish. Eames feels up Arthur's stretched arm, along the lean muscle.

Arthur pulls his arm back and looks pointedly at Eames as he lathers the soap up his chest.

Eames lets the smoke stutter out of his lungs and then coughs.

"So your brother's a little bitch, huh?" Arthur says conversationally and Eames slumps into the wall like just the thought tires him. His forehead is dotted with sweat and he takes one more drag then puts out the cigarette in his cold tea with a hiss.

"He got my mother's looks, but he's just like my father in every other way that counts."

This doesn't seem to be a compliment. It's also the kind of information Eames usually keeps pocketed away close to him. Arthur takes it with quiet appreciation.

"Did you get your dad's looks, then?" he asks softly, because Eames is beautiful, but not in the same way as his mother.

Eames's eyebrow rises in consideration. "My father was a stocky bastard," he says finally.

And then he looks away, smirking humorlessly to himself, self-aware.

Arthur sits up, leans forward and touches Eames's mouth. He sees the interest flare in Eames's eyes.

"And where did you get these?" Arthur asks, half-teasing, rubbing Eames's lips, the plush give of them.

"Oh those are from the devil, my love," Eames says low and Arthur smirks. Eames takes his wrist and guides his hand away.

"Finish up. I have something I want to do to you."

Eames leaves the room with his newspaper and tea cup, closing the door behind him.

 

 

He's standing by the turned down bed, robe open. When Arthur comes in, he doesn't seem concerned about the state of his dress. He just says "Get on the bed, Arthur." Like Arthur is a little boy that must be guided.

It makes Arthur pause, swallow.

He does it. On his hands and knees, towel still tied to his waist. He puts his red cheek to the cool pillow.

The bed moves when Eames gets behind him and in the small, reflective window, Arthur can see Eames's broad back, the slope of it, as he shrugs the robe off.

Arthur breathes out sharply, dick stiffening.

Eames unwraps the towel, pulls if away. Arthur buries a small sound into the pillow, self-conscious of his ass in the air.

He expects probing, thick fingers to touch him curiously, still learning his body.

The bed shivers a little and there's only a palm, warming him, up and down his spine. He lets out a held breath and growls "Christ, come on."

"Quiet now," Eames tells him. No tolerance. Arthur hates that. He _hates_ it. He has to bite his lip to keep his frustration in check.

Nothing. Just Eames warming him, long rub up and down that makes Arthur edgy, impatient.

He wants to turn, draw Eames in between his legs. He wants Eames on him. He wants at his thick cock. He lets out a soft, whining breath and that hand just slides up his spine again, soothing.

He puts his grimace into the pillow, fights to relax.

When his breathing is in check, the hand stops. Arthur blinks, waiting.

A short gust of hot breath against his inner thigh is the only warning he gets.

" _Oh god_ ," he cries out at the soft, searching lips at his ass, fingers parting him wide.

There's a gentle nose-nuzzle at his cheek and a gusty "Shhhh," and then Eames's broad tongue, all muscular and soaking like he's _salivating_ for it, slips over his center.

"Please, Eames. Oh fuck. Oh god-" he groans mindlessly, hips twitching, searching for it when Eames pulls back as easily as he started. Arthur could cry. Arthur might be crying.

He can hear Eames over his own panicked sounds, panting to catch his breath.

"Quiet now, Arthur-" Eames tells him, voice rough and deep. Arthur bites his lip to try, to try to do what Eames says.

His knees lock and stiffen with anticipation when Eames parts his ass again, when Eames lets his soft lips drag along Arthur's spine.

"You're so smooth and pink where I fuck you-" Eames tells him. A finger circles his pucker and Arthur screws up in reaction, tensing.

"Look at you," Eames marvels hotly. "You're so tender where it matters, aren't you?"

The kiss he presses is almost chaste, sweet. Right against his hole. Arthur whines in his throat.

Eames pets him, pets his hole, kisses and then _nips_ at his ass. He sighs "I'm going to eat you up, darling boy-"

"-Fuck, Eames," Arthur sobs out.

"Yes, love. Bite your fist. I'm going to make such a mess of you."

 

 

He's dying, face washed with sweat, eyes rolled shut.

His bottom lip trembles. He's been on the verge of something _devastating_ for so long, his balls are all tight and achingly full.

He rolls his head to the side and breathes " _Eames_ ," almost lost in the wreck of his voice.

Eames is immersed in trying to soften Arthur's flexing hole with focused, repetitive tongue-fucks. On and on and on. Arthur can't do anything but hump the air on instinct, dick a rigid, straining, drippy mess.

Eames pulls back and gasps "W-will you come like this?" and draws a curious hand around Arthur's swollen sack and tugs gently.

It's explosive, stunning. Arthur throws his head back on his shoulders with a shout.

His dick kicks against his stomach, untouched, come streaming.

"Oh Arthur," Eames groans, voice broken, accent heavy.

He's still rocking with the pleasure when a heavy hand falls on his lower back, drops him into the mattress. Holds him there.

He can hear the frantic, slick sound of Eames finishing himself.

"Eames," he moans and bucks at the sudden splash of heat on his naked ass.

 

 

He wakes up. Eames is tickling his foot so he kicks him in the chest and Eames chuckles.

"I'm fuckin' sleeping," Arthur argues.

"Come on, Arthur darling. There's something I want to show you," he says, too loud.

Arthur pulls the blankets over his head and falls back asleep.

He wakes up, blankets ripped off. The air is so cold, he yelps. Eames grabs him by the wrist and pulls with a grunt. "Lets go, my idle boy. Up."

Arthur lets himself be pulled partway, and then gets out of bed himself. He's going to beat the shit out of Eames.

"Don't call me 'boy'. Especially after last night. It's perverted," Arthur says as Eames tosses him an itchy wool sweater. One of his own.

Arthur pulls it on, yawning deeply. He hears Eames yawn too.

He pulls his pants on from the night before. "Where are we going?" he hisses.

Eames draws him out the door, hand to Arthur's lower back.

They don't go downstairs, they go up. Quietly past a door that Eames pauses to close, finger poised at his mouth.

Upstairs, they walk to the end of the hall and there's another set of stairs, narrower and steep.

It goes up and then veers to the right. At the top is a latched door that Eames opens with strong hands and then damp, grass-sweet air streams over them, pushes the hair off Arthur's forehead.

Eames steps out, reaching back to hold the door for Arthur. Arthur ducks through and they're on a terrace with a stone parapet. There are two, weathered Adirondack chairs pulled together there, facing East.

To the west, the country is still heavy with night.

"I can't believe you grew up in a castle," Arthur says, and they sit down together. Eames pulls a bottle out of his deep jacket pocket, cracks it open.

"Where did you grow up?" Eames asks him, curious. He takes a sip of the bottle and Arthur watches the way it wets his lips.

Arthur's made new friends with those lips.

He takes the bottle and drinks too, coughs. Cream sherry is not really his get up and go drink.

"We moved when I was 12, to Vermont. My family still lives there," Arthur tells him.

"Vermont," Eames says pleasantly. They pass the bottle and Eames sit back loose in his chair, perfectly at ease.

The sun rises slowly over a stand of trees and as Arthur watches, keenly, the whole world starts flooding light from the East like someone spilt it from a cup.

He takes a pull off the sherry and sighs. Eames is watching him.

"It is beautiful," Arthur allows, settling back to watch. "Even if we're sitting up here in our castle like assholes, lording over it all."

Eames takes the bottle and says "You know, Arthur. Most of our neighboring families are farmers. We live very modestly here."

Arthur laughs, shivering. "You know those neighbors were probably your serfs back in the day, right?"

Eames drinks. "Lets just enjoy the moment, my darling."

 

 

They go back to bed after, tipsy. Arthur snores faceplanted into Eames's thick shoulder. When he wakes up again, it's to a tap at the door. "Breakfast, my dears," Eames's mother says from the other side.

Arthur stretches. His mouth is right at the pale underside of Eames's arm. He looks and then licks, tracing the black tattoo.

When he glances up, Eames is watching him with his mouth parted. There is a fine, reddish beard coming in on his face already. It makes his mouth look just that much more outrageous.

When Arthur rises, Eames's mouth follows, wanting. Arthur has to shove him away, hand to his forehead.

"Oh, you terrible tease-" Eames growls, but Arthur ignores him, opens his bags to get dressed, face turned away to hide his flush of pleasure.

"I'm hungry," he grouses. Eames rises at his back, arms around him.

"Eames-" Arthur starts, jostled.

"Let me," Eames exhales, stopping Arthur's hands. He takes over the search for Arthur's clothes.

Arthur rolls his eyes "This is a thing, isn't it?"

"You enjoy it, don't pretend otherwise," Eames says, low. Strong hands move Arthur aside. "Do you think I don't know you at all?"

Arthur makes a few noises to the contrary.

While Eames is looking, Arthur lies back on the bed. Waiting, hand spread over his stomach.

He can smell sausages cooking, and he's interested in them enough to put his bare foot to the side of Eames's face and push.

"Hurry," he says and Eames chuckles.

When his big toe is captured in a hot suck, Arthur jerks, pulls back.

Eames is all dirtily pleased with himself. He stands up, hair mussed. "Where are your suits, Arthur?"

Arthur wipes the spit off his toe. "In the bags in the closet. I didn't bring that many."

"We'll make do," Eames says, distracted.

 

 

Adam is already at the table, preppy in what looks like a tennis sweater. He's reading the Guardian, drinking a porcelain cup of coffee.

Eames's mother stands up as they come in, kissing Eames on the cheek good morning. She pats Eames's arm and offers him _The Sun_ as she goes to fish some sausages out of the kitchen.

"Mmmm, morning," Arthur says to Adam politely, and Adam raises an eyebrow.

"Be nice," Eames tells him as he sits.

"Would you like some coffee, then?" Adam sighs. He fills Arthur's cup.

Eames pours his own, spreads marmalade on his toast.

Eames's mother brings a whole little plate of sausages, slides four onto Arthur's plate without even asking. Arthur could kiss her.

She gives the rest to Eames, sits back down in her own chair, pushed to the side so she can cross her legs, look out at her front walkway.

"So," starts Adam with relish. "Did anyone else have trouble sleeping over the screaming last night?"

Arthur chokes on his sausage.

"Well, Arthur did," Eames says lightly. Arthur looks up, catches the silent, shared amusement between Eames and his mother before she says "That is quite enough, Adam. No one is interested in hearing about your skulking around-"

"Skulking!" Adam argues. "I could hear them all the way downstairs!"

Arthur chews the rest of his sausage, drinks his coffee down and then rises. "Yes, well. Thank you for breakfast, Ms. Eames." She makes an unhappy sound as he leaves the table.

"Are you all right?" Eames asks him on the stairs and Arthur turns, snarls "I will _destroy_ your little brother."

Eames's face is all open pleasure. He trots to keep up. "He's a terrible git."

Arthur pauses in the hallway and looks at Eames, openly distraught. "Oh, god Eames. Your mother-?"

"She's _fine_. She's not interested in the slightest in what you were screaming about last night."

Arthur looks at him. "She's fine?"

Eames shrugs.

"How can that be possible?" Arthur asks, disconcerted. "I...when _my_ mother found out-" He goes quiet and rubs his face, grim.

"When your mother-?" Eames prompts.

"She was so _worried_. I thought she was worried about me telling my dad and getting the shit kicked out of me. Do you know what she asked me? She asked me if someone had touched me. If someone had made me..." Arthur pauses and frowns. "Because she couldn't imagine I could _be_ this, without something being really wrong with me."

Eames looks at him, serious.

"But your mother is just fine," Arthur says, disbelieving.

"Well, she doesn't seem very concerned," Eames amends.

 

 

He has studying to do over break, which Eames seems to find completely unbearable. He sets up by a lit fireplace downstairs, in the library. Eames sighs into a chair by the fire and falls asleep after a while, head tilted. Which gives Arthur something to look at when his eyes hurt and he needs a break.

There's only so much Kierkegaard he can take before he's dozing too, book on his knee.

They sleep for half of the day.

When he gets up, Eames is gone and the house is quiet. He finds him in the kitchen, sitting at the cook's table, eating a sandwich. Arthur looks around before he kisses him on the temple.

He peers into the pantry, looks back to find Eames just watching him, dazed.

"Are you ok?" Arthur asks.

"I just woke up," he says, groggy.

Arthur grins, brings back the bread from breakfast and eats it plain. "I can't believe how much I'm sleeping here. It must be the air."

Eames scoffs. "Well, it certainly couldn't be the thorough _rimming_ I gave your tender boy-ass last night."

Arthur chews and ducks down, flushing. He gets a hand to his nape, holding onto the short hairs there. He hisses.

"Don't hide your shameful arousal from me-" Eames coos and Arthur puts his hand back, pries Eames off of him.

"Your brother-" he asks, seriously.

"He's _gone_. We have the house to ourselves," Eames assures.

And then a woman dressed in a white toga walks past the kitchen windows, carrying a giant, fake horse head.

"Oh well, except for my mother's friends."

 

 

"What. Is this?" Arthur asks, stunned. Down a garden path behind the house, there's a small, stone amphitheatre cut into the hill. From here, there's a view of rolling land and someone's sheep in a meadow, tiny white dots moving slowly through dry grass. In the amphitheatre, a man dressed like a satyr is flirting with a woman holding a violin. She's dressed like a nymph, hair in brambles, gauzy material showing the outline of her ass in the sun.

There are others streaming in, and wine, crates of wine set in the muddy field.

"My mother's having a party," Eames explains. "She likes her theatricals."

Arthur turns to him, laughing. "Your boyhood was a Fellini movie, wasn't it?"

Eames looks almost self-conscious, but he smiles.

"It explains a lot," Arthur adds.

Arthur takes off his jacket and they sit in a dry spot in the dead grass, watching, Arthur with his knees tucked to his chest and Eames sprawled back on one elbow.

Eames's mother appears dressed like a soldier, her short hair tied back in a little knot. Arthur likes her more than he expected. Eames picks at the grass, bored.

"Can we stay?" Arthur asks.

"If we stay, we'll have to participate," Eames tells him.

"Should we dress up?" Arthur asks. Eames shoots him an amused look.

" _Arthur_ , you're already dressed like a posh git. You'll fit right in."

Arthur frowns, pulls at his cuffs.

"If we stay, I'm going to need a little liquid courage," Eames says, standing up. He brushes off his pants and then puts out a hand to pull Arthur to his feet.

They walk down to pilfer a bottle of wine.

 

 

When evening comes, people stream in from town, from neighborhood farms. One woman brings a cow with her, gives its rope to Eames, who smiles wryly at Arthur and passes it on to a man walking by. The party is silly, uproarious. A few men light a bonfire and it sends sparks into the dark, starlit sky, smoke into Arthur's eyes. It looks like Midsummer madness, but it's winter cold out. Arthur can see his breath. A man dressed like Bacchus skips by, playing a lute. Arthur's drunk They're on a third bottle, just newly opened.

Eames swigs and then he's talking low in Arthur's ear, scandalous _Did you ever jerk off while I was sleeping, looking at me? Your gorgeous roommate? I bet you did, my needy boy-_

Arthur's mouth tugs up at one corner, and he leans closer to hear more.

But Eames pauses, looking off into space. Arthur turns to look over his shoulder, see what's so interesting.

There's a man with dark hair, dark eyes. And he's standing there in the revelers, watching them, cigarette poised, fingers long and delicate.

"Who is that?" Arthur asks, frowning

The man is smoking, looking at them. Looking at _Eames_.

"Fuck," Eames breathes and he walks away, away from Arthur, down the hill towards this man.

Whoever he is, Arthur has a selfish impulse to break the bottle over his head.

Instead, he swigs from it. Shoulders tensing,.

 

 

They're talking. Arthur watches, drinking alone. The man is talking to Eames and Eames is listening, small smile on his face.

After what seems like an excruciatingly long time, Eames turns to look at him and beckons him to come.

Arthur drinks again, tipping the bottle. And then he walks down, frowning.

"Arthur, this is Julian," Eames tells him and the man is _painfully_ handsome with graying hair at his temples and laugh lines by his eyes. He smiles at Arthur and shakes his hand, says "It's a pleasure to meet you, Arthur."

He's _Italian_. Arthur's jaw goes tight. He can't speak for a moment, the rush of jealousy is so palpable, he can feel it tightening his throat.

There's something on Eames's face that he's never seen before. It takes him a moment to realize Eames is nervous.

"Well, we must-" Eames says but Arthur interrupts.

"Oh no. Lets stay and talk with Julian for a little while longer," Arthur says, viciously polite.

Eames sighs.

Julian chuckles, and the sound is rich and sexy. "I see why it's you, Arthur," Julian says and then he _strokes_ Eames's cheek. "You couldn't always be mine," he tells him, teasing. It's so quick, so _intimate_ , Arthur almost doesn't believe it happened.

He feels the blood drain out of his face.

A smile twitches on Eames's lips, the kind he makes when he's cornered, like he can't help it.

Julian's smile goes sly, and he says low between them. "Ah, but I was the first. Yes?" And then he walks away, leaving that for Arthur to hold onto.

"Arthur-" Eames begins patiently, but Arthur just hands him the bottle and walks away.

 

 

"Arthur!" Eames calls, and he's walking swiftly behind him as Arthur heads to the house.

Inside, Arthur sets up the stairs and Eames groans "Darling, are you angry?"

In their bedroom, Arthur starts to shove his things in a bag but then he just sits down hard on the bed and tries to catch his breath.

"I thought I was your first," he says, frustrated. "Jesus."

Eames is standing in the doorway, impassive. "I know you did. And how was I to tell you differently? You seemed quite _taken_ by the idea."

The last part is so full of meaning, even though he's angry, Arthur feels a wild flush of shame.

Caught out, he runs a palm through his hair. "I wanted to be your first. It felt like... _something_. I guess I just had assumptions about...shit, you should have told me."

"You didn't even ask, love. And you seemed so pleased with yourself," Eames says.

Arthur groans, face in his hand. "Oh god, of course. Of course I wasn't. I'm an _asshole_."

"No," Eames says, soothing. He crouches down to open Arthur's bag again, unpacking the mess Arthur made. "I would have torn men apart to be _your_ first. It's a beautiful idea. I can see how it would be alluring."

Arthur feels like something's died. He sits there, shoulder's slumped.

"Oh Arthur, don't pout."

"What did you do with him?" Arthur asks, depressed.

Eames sighs, sits down beside him. Their shoulders kiss.

"Well, not everything. I was much younger, inexperienced. Just the basics, really." Arthur looks at him. He can tell that everything Eames's saying is to comfort him.

"Like what? Have you fucked an ass before me?" Arthur asks crudely.

Eames is startled. He looks at Arthur and then actually seems to have to consider it. "Well," he says. "I...not a man's before you-" he admits.

"Oh my god," Arthur groans, hand over his eyes.

"I wasn't going to say no to her. She was very convincing," Eames explains.

Arthur moves his hand away, silent. Eames is frowning beside him, looking nervous. The little cleft above his upper lip is sweaty. Arthur touches it and then says "The rimming-"

"Oh yes, darling," Eames amends quickly, voice like warm smoke. "You were my first."

Arthur pets a thumb along Eames's lips, loving him. Sighing.

"Sorry," he breathes, so quiet it's almost like he hasn't said it at all.

"Mmm," Eames hums. "Do you still want to go to my mother's party?"

Arthur stands, smoothes his hair back into place. "Will _Julian_ be staying?" he grumbles, looking at himself in the mirror.

"Will you be sleeping with Professor Saito when we get back?" Eames asks suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere.

Arthur's jaw drops. He sees the way Eames gazes off into the middle distance, face set, everything hidden away neatly inside him.

"No," he says dryly. "Never, ever again."

Eames's grin is honest. "Don't worry about Julian. He'll be much too busy trying to sodomize some farmer's son tonight to bother us."

Arthur feels like they've just promised each other something...something important. He smiles and then snorts. "That sounds awful, Eames."

 

 

Eames's mother is wonderfully drunk, her face flushed, her hands all over Arthur when she approaches them, fond. Which seems to strike Eames as completely amusing. He raises a brow, but Arthur just tightens his arm up, offering, as she squeezes the muscle.

"You must be on my team," she tells them, walking them down to the amphitheatre.

"There are teams?" Arthur asks, curious, her arm in his. Eames follows them with a new bottle of wine.

"Yes, of course," she says. "Do you know any good idioms? Last year we did the bible-"

Arthur shoots a look back at Eames, who is grinning, cracking the bottle open.

"I guess," Arthur says, confused.

 

 

No one bothers to explain the game and they're already playing. Eames steps in right away, rubbing his mouth, thoughtful. The crowd pauses, waits for him.

"Well," he says, and with a grin, he slaps his hand to a passing woman's ass and _squeezes_. She yelps and he says "You know, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush-" and he gestures, mocking, at the two men in feminine togas standing above the amphitheatre in the brambles.

The crowd laughs around them, amused.

Eames steps back next to Arthur and Arthur frowns.

"The game is...we're all overly literal and act out idioms?" he says.

Eames drinks, nodding.

"So basically, charades?" Arthur asks.

Eames shrugs.

"This is pretty stupid," Arthur admits.

Eames laughs. "Oh no. It's not stupid, Arthur. You're just not drunk enough."

He gives the bottle over and then reaches down to squeeze Arthur's ass with his bottom lip caught in his teeth.

"There," he says.

Arthur rolls his eyes. "That doesn't make up for squeezing that lady's ass, if that's what you think?"

Eames shrugs, careless.

 

 

He's extraordinarily _drunk_ , and he can tell Eames is too by the way he slings his arm over Arthur's shoulder, by the loudness of his laugh, by the brightness of his eyes. Arthur keeps looking up at him, pleased. His face is hurting with his pitted dimples. He's still laughing at the man who singed his eyebrows, _adding fuel to the fire_. The bonfire is roaring now, the smoldering gas can tossed into the field.

"That was so dangerous," Arthur cracks up. Eames is pulling him in tight again, mouth to Arthur's hot ear.

" _I'm going to fuck you, Arthur. You have been an awful tease all day long. I love when you let me dress you. Gorgeous, slender Arthur. My darling, my sweet, wonderful-_

Arthur shoves him in the fat head.

"Come on, son! It's you!" A man with a heavy accent calls to Arthur.

"W-what?" he says.

"Arthur, it's you. Go on, now," Eames's mother prompts, guiding him forwards.

Arthur looks around. Curious eyes watch him. He laughs and says "I don't know. I'm drunk-"

Eames takes the bottle from his hand roughly and says "You can't give up now in front of these people! These are your betters! You're supposed to show them up with your wily bourgeois wit!"

Arthur rolls his eyes, looks back at Eames. And then one dawns on him and he chuckles at the idea.

"Ok, ok," he says, waving them all to be quiet. He clears his throat, looks at Eames and winks.

Turned away from the fire, he does a clean, easy back flip. The world turns over and he realizes too late that this might not be the best plan of action. His stomach swings. He hears the crowd's indrawn breath and then he's landing on his feet, knees bent, hair tousled.

He looks to Eames, flourishes towards him for the crowd. "I'm head over heels, my darling!" he says affectionately, melodramatic.

And then he bows.

You'd think he's just done something death-defying. The cheers are profuse as he walks back to Eames. Eames, whose face is all dark with feeling.

"All right, all right," Eames says, trying to calm the crowd down. "I have one."

"My Arthur," Eames says to the crowd, gesturing. "I admit, he seems like a charming lover. Very flexible, quick on his feet." Everyone chuckles warmly. "But this little tease has denied me left and right. He's led me on a _merry chase_ all day long."

Everyone laughs at Eames's cheek, but Arthur just looks at him, swaying on his feet.

 

"Arthur?" Eames prompts. "You must run now, darling."

 

Arthur looks to the house, teeth in his lip.

 

"Go on, I'll give you a head start."

 

Arthur breaks for it, using his hands to claw his way up the hill.

 

 

He gets as far as the front of the house, which is pretty good for the state he's in, but Eames catches him, tags him into the rock wall with strong hands.

"Shit," Arthur blurts out.

Teeth sink into his throat above his loose collar, and Eames laves the caught flesh with his tongue, groaning.

Oh god, they're both _very drunk_.

" _Arthur_ -" Eames breathes down his neck when he pulls back, chin digging into Arthur's shoulder.

"Take me upstairs," Arthur gasps.

"God yes," Eames breathes out harsh. "Yes-"

" _Eames_ ," Arthur hisses. "Let's go, _quick_."

He's dragged by his collar through the dark house. Knocked into chairs. They don't make it all the way up to their room. They rut on the stairway, Eames heavy over him. Arthur's heels skid helplessly over the slippery wood, along Eames's sweaty back.. The stairs are sharp against his thighs, his spine as Eames tries to get his own belt open and then gives up, his mouth sucking pulses on Arthur's throat.

They jack like schoolboys against each other, Eames's nose all snarled in his frustration.

Arthur knocks his head into a stair, claws fingers into whatever he can grab, Eames's flexing hip, his upper back. " _Please_."

"Arthur, _Arthur_ -" Eames cries out and his clothed rut is brutal for breathless, sweat-spiking second until he's shuddering, orgasming. His whole body jolts with it. Arthur gasps when Eames drops over him. Too heavy, Arthur can't breathe.

Arthur's sobbing quietly when Eames lifts himself up. The front of their pants are both damp now from Eames's load, shared between them. Eames is trying to catch his breath, but each of his exhales is a soft, just-barely-there whine.

"'Don't leave me like this-" Arthur begs him, clinging as Eames tries to lift himself up.

" _Arthur_ ," Eames breathes shakily. "S-sorry, my darling. It won't happen again."

He hurts Arthur's arm, dragging him to his feet.

 

 

Arthur is beyond dignity. As soon as he falls into their bedroom, he's tearing his own clothes off, teeth in his lip. He looks and Eames's hair is sticking up like a boys in the back, his mouth is _plump_ from kissing and he's opening his shirt, eyes hot.

"Fuck, come on," Arthur groans, voice gravelly.

Eames throws off his shirt, and Arthur trips forward, his own caught on a wrist. He falls to his knees with a grunt, licks frantic and slutty at the thicker hair above Eames's belt. Loves it. Can smell his musky, creamy cock here. He presses his nose into the damp and gets his hair fisted.

"If you don't get up, I'll waste another load all over your face-" Eames threatens and Arthur seethes through his clenched teeth, gets up.

He shoves off his pants, goes to climb onto bed on his hands and knees.

"Where are _you_ going?" Eames growls and _grabs_ Arthur by the hips, dragging him back to the edge. Arthur's chin jars on the mattress as he lets himself go.

He drops his head, watches Eames working his pants open. When Eames peels them off with his underwear, Arthur sees that fat cock, still half-thick with arousal, slicked up with come.

Arthur puts his fingers to his mouth, staring. Has to suck something. Hard.

Eames turns Arthur until he's on his back, knees bent, pressed open. He watches Eames through slitted eyes, his cock bobbing stiffly in the cool air.

Eames put one of Arthur's ankles over his shoulder. His face is bright with color as he sterns his jaw, traces his cock against Arthur's hot inner thighs, lightly, soft skin twitching as he thickens up again. Arthur sucks feverishly at his fingers, eyes slipping shut at the look on Eames's face. All fierce interest. Sometimes, with Eames, Arthur gets so aroused, he can feel the drain of blood out of his other parts, the sudden rush so big, he almost feels sick.

Eames runs his dry thumb down behind Arthur's balls, finds his hole and presses it in without slowing, without patience. Arthur grabs Eames's arm, holds like it's a lifeline.

Eames has him spitted on his thumb, and his cock gets all rigid again, ready. Arthur feels so slutty for it, he curls his other leg around Eames's hip, uses it for leverage to rock his hips up, take more of Eames's thumb.

"Aw fuck," Eames croaks, mouth curling up. Arthur throws his head back, throat bobbing.

"Do it," Arthur begs, shaking. He holds his own cock, soothing himself "Eames-"

Eames groans when he pulls his thumb free. And then he's spitting into his hand, ugly sound. He drags two fingers through the spit, spits again and then he's easing them, just barely slick, into Arthur's ass.

He fucks Arthur open, stretching the cling. Not enough, not nearly enough, but he groans "I can't wait for you-" and drags the blunt head of his dick down, into place.

When he does it, they both react gorgeously. Arthur arches sharp, lower back curved. And Eames turns his head to the side with a high sound, falls onto his hands over Arthur and shoves _deeper_.

 

 

"Oh god, oh god-" Arthur is gasping. Eames makes a space inside him. Eames taxes Arthur's body, strains him. He's looking down at Arthur with glazed eyes and then he snaps, suddenly covers Arthur's mouth with a palm.

"You have to be quiet, my darling-" he begs, breath coming quickly. "Please."

His pace goes ragged, startlingly swift. Needy and impatient.

Arthur snorts for air, eyes widening.

"Oh fuck _me_ ," Eames gasps, shocked, dropping over him, face buried in Arthur's shoulder. "I love you, Arthur. I think, oh god-"

And like that, Arthur's whole body is incandescent.

The next few moments are just feeling, thrust and response that builds until they're both sweated together, panting on this very sheer, trembly edge.

Arthur's cock twitches in his own hand and it's a slow, certain build. His body locks up as it surges over him, deafening and severe.

"Oh my darling," Eames whines as he comes. Arthur's eyes roll back in his head and he comes too. In wracking, near-painful spasms.

 

 

Soft, wet lips suckle his neck as he comes back into his body, twitching.

"Mmmm, Arthur. Arthur," Eames says over and over, like he savors it on his lips.

He makes his way down Arthur's body, kissing him with an open, hot mouth, sometimes running his tongue over something interesting. Freckles, soft spots. Arthur arches, worn out. Sexed.

He knuckles his eyes and goes loose, sleepy.

"Arthur," Eames moans, drawing out the r.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

He doesn't realize how stressed he's getting until he has a breakdown in the quad over losing his pen. He finds it five seconds later, stuck in his shirt pocket. But the damage is done. He's losing it.

It isn't helping that, since getting back from the holidays, Eames is...well. Eames is just Eames, he supposes. Eames is just Eames and it's driving Arthur _fucking crazy_.

There are small things. The way he is gone at all hours. Even though Arthur's posted his class times and TA hours on the white board and should know perfectly well when Arthur's at home, waiting for him.

And then there's the dirty laundry, the general state of chaos and disarray Arthur has to live with, the messy bed, the socks everywhere, the dirty gin glasses. Everything just left about carelessly for Arthur to find. His favorite tie left on the floor by Eames's _slippers_.

The worst is the _flirting_ though. Eames and the girl next door, leaning in the hall together and laughing privately. Eames and the barista at the coffee shop across campus, resting across the counter, face-to-face, talking about _Thomas Hardy_ , like Eames reads _literature_. Eames and the librarians when his book is late, all grinning together wryly on the sky-lighted mezzanine. Eames and the janitor in the Anthropology offices, while Arthur is standing _right there_ , waiting.

He used to watch Cobb and Mal go at it and wonder how two people could want to spend so much time together when all they did was bicker. And now he has Eames.

But it's not really that they bicker, per se, it's more that Arthur bickers and Eames eats a sandwich, looks out the window. Or stares at the wall. Or even just glances at Arthur with mild interest, like there's something about the way Arthur's mouth purses that Eames finds slightly worthy of interest.

Arthur can't have another discussion about Eames's goddamn socks.

So he goes back to the room and he drinks. And he drinks. He's still drinking when Eames comes in, so _fucking attractive_ in his winter coat, collar turned up.

" _Arthur_ ," he says with surprised amusement. "Are you drunk?"

Arthur sloshes gin on Eames's desk and says "No," a little irritable. And then he looks at his mess for as long as it takes Eames to remove his jacket and he says "maybe a little."

He pauses with the glass halfway to his lip, looks at Eames's jacket, thrown on Arthur's bed like that's where it belongs.

Arthur rolls his eyes, knocks his glass down a little hard on the table so it makes a _clacking_ noise.

"Look, this," Arthur starts, slurring. "This isn't working for me. This whole...what you. _God_."

He puts his hands through his hair and he has so much to say, about picking up dirty clothes and hanging _jackets_ where they belong, about not flirting with everything with a pulse and about stupid days when they never see each other because Eames can't seem to remember when Arthur has an hour off at lunch. But as he runs his hands through his hair, something much bigger and _scarier_ wells up inside him. Something he never even considered before. Something that must have been just there, slithering beneath the surface of his thoughts.

He's done this before. Cobb knows. Once he thought his advanced History of Rhetoric professor had suspected him of plagiarism. He'd taken a few choice words in class and a previous grade on an outline as his proof and with his final paper, he'd turned in print-outs of every single source material he had used and gone through and underlined everything he had properly quoted. The professor had been surprised, but he'd never actually said that Arthur was _wrong_ in his suspicions.

But Cobb had frowned. Cobb had said that maybe Arthur _jumped the gun_ sometimes. A little.

He lets it all out with a hard exhale.

"You're just _you_ Eames, and...I can't imagine this is going to be what you want for very long," Arthur says, hands in his hair, looking at Eames through narrow eyes.

Eames just pauses there, listening. He's looking at Arthur with this tiny furrow in his brow.

"It's ok, because it's just _you_ ," comes out of Arthur's mouth. "I know you've always enjoyed women and...sex. It's not a surprise. It'd be _more_ of a surprise if you were just happy like this-"

Eames says something then, voice so clear and slow, like he's carefully annunciating every single word. "You don't trust me, Arthur?"

Arthur rolls his eyes and makes a scoffing sound. "No. I'm not saying that. Don't put words in my mouth. I'm saying I _know_ you. And come on, am I out of line to acknowledge that? We both know what you used to get up to, before. You know."

Eames looks at him for a long moment. His face is blank.

"Look. We can be adults about this. You can't change what you are. And I can't change what _I_ am. And maybe that's for the best, right? I mean, what the fuck is this but putting off the inevitable awkwardness of having to go back to our regular lives-"

And he expects something soon.

This is what he expects: Eames laughing lightly, musically. Sitting down to pull off his boots. Eames touching Arthur's cheek all affectionately, sighing. Eames saying _Oh, Arthur_.

But when he goes to sit on his desk, feeling confident in his assessment, Eames turns to the side. And he picks up his jacket off the bed and he puts it on.

While Arthur watches, mouth parted in surprise, Eames leaves, closing the door behind him.

He just...walks out.

And that's it, Arthur thinks. That's the end of that.

 

 

Cobb answers the phone with a "This is Dom-" and Arthur blubbers out "I did it again. Oh god, why did I...it was just like my paper. I always jump the gun, why do I always jump the gun??!"

It seems to take Cobb a breath and then he's saying "Which class? Was it that Kierkegaard thesis you were worried about?"

"No!" Arthur barks out. "God, it's not a _paper_. Who cares about papers! I can't believe I _did_ this to him! He was so...he even. I...what is _wrong_ with me, Dom? Is there something just...particularly fucked up about me???"

Cobb doesn't answer, just takes a breath and in a calming voice says "Arthur. What is this about?"

"He said he _l-loved me_. And yes, it was during coitus, but I...think he _meant it_. I never even said it back! I just _bitched_ about him not being home when I wanted. God, what _is wrong with me_?"

Cobb makes a lot of upset noises and then says "Arthur, is this...are you still seeing _Saito_?"

He can hear Mal now, in the background, speaking in French.

"No, not _Saito_. Eames. _Oh God_. Dom. I really fucked it up this time, man," he's saying, sardonic, voice edging with hysteria.

"Eames?" Cobb asks.

"I don't even know what I said! I had all this stupid shit to complain about, like legitimate shit and then I just went into this _state_ and all this paranoid bullshit fell out of my mouth-"

"...That guy you live with?" Cobb says, confused.

"I can't believe...I basically called him a _man-whore_. Who _does that_?!"

His eyes are so hot. He screws up his face. He puts his forehead to the desk and knocks it against the wood once, hard.

It jars him and he closes his cell in his hand.

 

 

He goes outside in the cold dark to stand underneath the blinking florescent in front of the dorm, waiting for Eames to come home. He shivers, too punishing to go back in and put a warmer jacket on.

He keeps thinking this will happen: He's sitting with his back to the wall, freezing. Head ducked low, bereft.

When he looks up, Eames is walking over, face hard. But when he sees Arthur there, sitting without a warm jacket in the cold night, he softens.

He comes to him and helps him up. And his beautiful mouth is all soft at his cheekbone when he sighs _Arthur_.

In his head, it's all relief and crescendo and the end of a movie.

But he waits for two hours and Eames never comes.

 

 

He wants to climb into Eames's bed, _their bed_.

But he can't.

So he gets into his own bed, which smells a little mildewy, unused. Not like their mixed sweat and Eames's aftershave.

He rolls over to face the wall and doesn't sleep. He just lays there, thinking about it over and over. About what he did.

He thinks that Eames might not ever come home. He could just send someone to gather his things.

His eyes hurt by the time he drifts off, body limp.

 

 

The room is palely lit when he hears the door open and then close. He turns over quietly and Eames is sitting down on his own bed, jacket still on. His eyes are bloodshot. He rubs his hair like he's combing something out of it and looks at Arthur.

Arthur can't stand it. His throat is tight with anxiety. "Eames, oh god, I'm sorry-" he starts.

"Shut up," Eames says, voice so hoarse and gravelly. Arthur's mouth stays open, but empty. Lost for words.

Eames rubs his face a few times and then he stands up, begins to undo his jacket.

Underneath, his shirt is unbuttoned, his tie askew. He pulls them off, one by one and hangs them off the foot of his bed.

When he's done, his chest is ruddy like the cold air got under his clothes and chilled him.

He sits down to take off his shoes, drops them on the floor. And then with only his pants on, he gets up and comes to Arthur.

Arthur loses his breath, lets himself fall back as Eames comes over him.

Eames is heavy. It's a weight Arthur can't believe is there, after the whole night of being lonely for it. He wants to be smothered, And he is, a little. He groans to himself, at the feeling, his fingertips just barely brushing the hot, smooth skin of Eames's sides.

"You'll have to show me," Eames breathes to him softly, face at Arthur's ear, and it's something shared between them, not for anyone else to hear. Eames hitches up his hips, rests on his shoulder as he undoes his belt, pushes his slacks down.

And then Eames is moving to lie next to Arthur, pants low on his thick thighs. He takes up so much room, it's awkward, precarious. His eyes are all _naked_ feeling, emotional. And he licks his mouth once, eyes thinning as Arthur watches.

It takes Arthur longer than it should, to realize what's happening. He's tired, just sobering up. He's wide-eyed with having Eames half-naked against him. He's in love with him, Jesus.

Eames is moving, awkward, arm tensing and releasing. Hand behind himself.

Arthur has a sharp intake of breath at the realization and Eames's eyes slip closed at it, a moan warm on his lips.

Arthur's fingers dig into Eames's hips.

Eames licks his lip a few more times, giving shuddering breathes. He pulls his hand back, looks at his two, thick fingers.

"I need something slick, d-darling," Eames tells him, voice a little broken.

Arthur shoves up, scrambles over his mountain of a roommate. He doesn't dig around, just grabs the bottle he left in Eames's sock drawer.

He brings it back and Eames is biting his lip hard, hand down the blankets again.

"No, get on your hands and knees," Arthur tells him, intent.

Eames gnaws at his lip, looking at Arthur with so much clear need, Arthur drops forward, puts their foreheads together and breathes out "Sweet Eames."

Eames's mouth quirks but he goes over on his hands and knees hurriedly. Ends with his muscular arms folded and his head resting on them, his beautiful ass in the air completely shameless, unembarrassed.

Arthur grunts as he pulls Eames's slacks all the way off, lifting one heavy leg at a time. Eames sighs when he's free, parts his knees so wide and giving, Arthur has to pause, holding himself up with a clawed hand to Eames's hip.

He parts Eames's ass, looks with interest. Feels Eames's soft catch of breath. Sees the way his ass just _twists up_. Protective. Untrained.

Arthur's whole body locks up, overheated. He moans, lips trembling.

"Can you do it?" Eames asks him, plaintive sound to his voice.

"Oh yes," Arthur tells him. "Fuck yes."

He spreads Eames, utilitarian movements. Head cocked. He slicks up his fingers, brings them to his mouth and breathes hot on them. Readies them.

"Try to relax," he tells Eames, clipped.

He feels the _tightened_ rim of Eames's ass, sucks on his bottom lip in pulses as he _presses in_.

 

 

"Oh god. Oh! My god-" Eames is moaning, high, aroused sound that Arthur's dick keeps flexing to. He's left a sticky spot on the bed, on Eames's leg. He's breathing through his mouth, working his arm rough to fuck Eames open.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he asks thickly, not teasing. Knowing. Knowing what he's doing.

Eames's hips jolt at the sound of his voice, his ass up, raised. Fucking _slutty as hell_ , it makes Arthur clamp Eames's shoulder and _hold_ , work him harder.

"Ohhhhhh _fuck_ ," Eames moans long and needy, voice a beautiful rumble. "Oh fuck, _fuck_. Yes-"

Arthur's never heard him like this, so lost. So wild with sex, he's not even himself. He's not trying to charm him. He's not trying to do anything, he's just feeling, taking. Getting _fucked_.

"Do you want my dick?" he asks. Has to. Not teasing even now. Just rough, to the point.

"G-god yes, _yes_ ," Eames says, voice ratcheted up that much more.

Arthur's mouth is snarled in his arousal. He pulls his fingers out, loves the sweet, sleek pull and give of Eames's ass. Can't think about how it's newly readied, just for him, while he jacks slick over his cock, frantic to be inside.

"God, be ready for me-" he breathes out as he takes Eames's hip and guides himself into him.

"Ohhhhhh," Eames gasps, hurt as Arthur sterns, teeth grit, and fucks him.

 

 

He snaps these _sounds_ out of Eames. Beautiful, unchecked moans. Sometimes strangled. Sometimes just. So _gorgeous_ , Arthur has to stop. Has to breathe, shallow and quick, hold himself back.

"No don't stop-" Eames begs him. "Please, oh god. Don't-"

And then Arthur's dick kisses in, just a little push he can't hold back. And he has to fuck him. Has to get into him, over and over. Jarring, furious movement that leaves a burn in his muscle, overworked. Eames takes it with his ass up, his face buried in his arms. Arthur can see the sweat on his spine, the ridge of it moving with the force of Arthur's body.

He has to see him.

His orgasm is so close on him now, he can feel it knitting heat through his body. He bites his lip and groans. Takes a rough hold of Eames's hair, pulls his face out of hiding.

"N-need to see you-" he whimpers and Eames looks over his shoulder.

His mouth is parted, his face is _feverish_. But his eyes. Oh god. His eyes are so _wide_ with surprise. That Arthur can make him feel this open, this good. This _taken_.

"Ohshit-" Arthur inhales sharp, and then he's coming. It doesn't crawl over him, it _rips_ out of him. Hard, angry pulses that he gurgles at, moan choked in his throat.

He's creaming Eames's ass, can't believe it. Oh shit, he can't even _stand it_.

 

 

"Get over, get over-" Eames is growling at him and Arthur is fucked _up_. He can barely figure out what he's saying to him and then Eames just swears and pulls Arthur onto his lap.

"W-what-" Arthur breathes and Eames is _breaching_ his ass with two impatient fingers. Arthur's sex-loose, swimming in the relief of coming. He knocks his head into Eames's shoulder, hisses.

Eames's mouth is wet at the seam where his jaw meets his throat, suckles the patch of sensitive skin under his earlobe.

He's not waiting. He holds Arthur with an arm hugged around his waist and pulls his ass onto his cock. Arthur cries out, body arching at the intrusion.

"F-fuck," Eames gasps in his ear. "You hot little _fuck_."

Arthur writhes, cock in his ass. Hips shifting, shifting.

"Eames," he gasps. "Oh-"

The burn of thick cock is so unexpected, it hurts. He's trembling as Eames starts fucking him.

The arm around his waist is strangle-tight, holds him for it.

It doesn't take Eames long. Arthur really worked him over. But it's the most inelegant fuck Eames has ever taken out of him. The most frustrated, selfish, painful.

Arthur fucking _loves it_. He whimpers a few short, disappointed times when Eames suddenly goes in hard and stays there, body in a tell-tale mess of trembles.

The deep groan Eames lets out is enough to send Arthur's cock twitching into stiffness.

 

 

They lay together, silent.

And then Eames puts his mouth to Arthur's cheek. Kisses at him, licks long, hot licks at his jaw, sighing.

"S-sorry," Arthur says finally, and he's so sorry, tears are in his eyes.

"I'm going to keep you, Arthur," Eames tells him, a sure and final edge to his voice.

Arthur nods. He sniffs once and Eames gets up on an elbow. "Are you crying?"

" _No_ ," Arthur says, and he's not crying. But his eyes are wet, unspilled. He rubs his arm over them, once. Eames looks on, in quiet awe of him.

"What if..." Arthur can't help but ask. "What if you get bored? What if this gets boring?"

Eames settles back with a heavy sigh. "Well, I suppose we'll have to try fisting then."

Arthur stares at the ceiling, and then snorts.


End file.
